I Dream A Highway
by Third Stage
Summary: He found himself wishing that it was all a bad dream and that he'd wake up any minute with Sam's head heavy on his shoulder in the back seat and the sun hot on his sleep hazy skin. AU, violence, swearing. Not Wincest this time guys!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer:Supernatural, it's characters and concepts belong to their rightful owners. I make no profit from this!

Warnings:Swearing, Angst, Limp!Sam, medical terminology, subjects which could offend more sensitive readers. Slight Wincest if you squint.

Author's Note: I honestly don't know where the inspiration for this story came from, but I've always wanted to explore the subject matter in this story. It's been eating at my soul for the past week or so and I can't get my mind away from it- my other stories have been put on temporary hold until I get this baby out of my system!

So I hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think! Your feedback keeps my soul alive!

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Part One: Would You Learn the Spells Which Drowse My Soul?

The letter was tucked away at the bottom of his duffle bag, hidden but not forgotten. It was a little tattered and worn from being taken out and re-read every few weeks or so, but still very much intact. Sam knew that he probably shouldn't have kept it, that it was a masochistic form of torture, constantly taunting himself with something that he could never have but he just couldn't bring himself to throw it away. It was the last remnant of a life that could have been, a dream that had slipped through his fingers.

There was an ache that lived deep within his chest. Every moment he was awake he could feel it, tearing away at his dreams, making him just a little bit more jaded and tired with each day that passed.

Sam could still remember the day that he had tucked it away, never to be seen by his father or brother again. He could remember his foolish joy and pride as he had stood in front of them and announced that he had gotten a full ride to Stanford, something that he had dreamed about but never dared to speak of.

He had been stupid to ever think that his father would understand. Dean had, although Sam had seen the quickly masked sorrow and fear that lingered in his eyes.

After that his father had offered the dreaded ultimatum; if he walked then he wouldn't ever be able to return. Dreams or family. It was that simple to his father, that easy, that black and white.

It wasn't that way for Sam, and nor had it ever been. In the end, he had backed down. He hadn't had the courage to walk away from everything he had ever known. His dreams remained just that; dreams.

He hated himself for not having the courage to stand up for what he believed and wanted. He hated his father for tearing down everything he had wanted, and he even hated Dean a little bit for unintentionally making him feel like the worst person alive for wanting to leave their family.

So Sam had stayed. He had stayed with his father after he had finished school, and the letter remained hidden but never forgotten at the bottom of his bag.

"Hey Sam. You with us here?" Dean's sharp voice broke through Sam's thoughts, and he looked away from the bleak landscape the flashed by outside the window.

Dean was looking at him in the rear-view with a frown on his face. Sam glanced at their father's profile, which was straight and tense, giving away his displeasure at Sam's wandering attention.

"Yeah. I'm with you," Sam murmured, straightening from his customary slouch in the back seat. It had become more of a home to him than anywhere else he had traveled. The leather was a little worn in places, slightly dulled with age, but kept in pristine condition, much like everything else associated with John Winchester. Much like Dean and Sam, both weapons to be utilized without a second thought, because John Winchester had trained them to the extreme, and had faith in their skills. Because really, they were his skills, honed to a fine edge and then bestowed on his two sons like some like of trophy.

Sam wasn't bitter anymore. He wasn't even angry at them. All there was left to him was the terrible ache that plagued him, the regret that ate at him, and the nightmares that tormented him.

He was a Hunter, through and through like the rest of them. A hunter who had finally lost something and was fighting because of that. Dean and their dad had lost a mother and a wife who Sam had never known. Sam had lost his dream two years ago. He had given up on normal, on living a life where he didn't have to feel so unsafe all the time, where everything he did was a risk.

Sam was tired. He knew that his lethargy over the last few weeks was too obvious to Dean, and not so obvious to their father, but for once he couldn't seem to dredge up the energy to try and hide anymore.

"Sam!" John's sharp voice made him jump, and he met his father's gaze in the mirror. "I asked you a question and I don't appreciate being ignored!"

Sam looked away and swallowed the permanent lump that lived in his throat.

"Yes sir," he replied quietly. "It won't happen again.

"Good. See that it doesn't," his father seemed to deflate a little, and relaxed back into the driver's seat. "Now, are you both clear on the plan? Do you need to go over it one more time?"

Sam shook his head mutely.

"Nope, it's all up here," Dean replied happily, tapping his temple as he sorted through their battered tape collection.

"Don't even think about touching my stereo Dean," his father warned, with a faint note of humor in his tone.

"But your music is making my ears bleed," Dean protested. "Seriously, do you know any music that was made after the 1930's?"

"I'll have you know..."

Sam tuned out their banter and looked out the window once more, leaning his head against the cold glass. Outside, dark storm clouds rumbled angrily in the sky, and a strong wind whipped through the trees. The rumble of the engine was a familiar lullaby to Sam, but not a welcome one. Every sound seemed to grate on his frayed nerves, and the thrumming of the engine seemed to fall into synch with the pounding in his head.

Sam often wondered just how long he would be trapped within his own world, but then realized that thinking about it only made it seem harder, and longer and more painful than it needed to be. He had only just turned twenty and he didn't know if he would ever be free of a world where weapons and monsters and traveling were the norm. If he really thought about it, he couldn't recall a single place where he had stayed for more than three months. He had no friends, besides Dean, and he wasn't sure if he wanted them any more.

His only friend was the battered journal that he wrote in occasionally when the hunt got too much, or when things went wrong. The blank pages never taunted him, the pen never got angry when he didn't live up to the things that were expected of him, nor was he under any obligation to track or kill or maim anything. Sometimes, writing things down helped. But reading didn't. He avoided reading books as much as he could, because they were just another reminder of things that were too far beyond his reach to be reclaimed.

The only reading he did was that required for research. Whether it be spending an afternoon in the library with Dean, or spending a morning holed up in a motel room while Dean and his dad talked to witnesses and relatives, it didn't really matter any more. Despite each job being different, there was a familiarity and likeness between each one. The amount of research, the victims and the families, it was all the same to him, all blurred into one messy whole. And as that whole got bigger and more complicated, Sam could feel a little more of himself draining away and inside it felt as if someone had hollowed him out with a giant spoon and left only a shell behind, a carcass of something that once was.

Their latest hunt had taken them to the Hells Canyon in Idaho, a scenic yet remote wilderness area. Rather ironically named too, seeing as they were there hunting the spirit of a murdered hiker that had been terrorizing hikers and sight seers alike on and off for the past fifty odd years. A pretty straight forward, clear cut case that Sam could solve and close in his sleep. And yet his father had seen fit to drill him endlessly on the process and the techniques they would be using to get rid of this particular nasty spirit.

Sam had learned to switch off when he needed to, yet still be able to make it seem like he was paying attention. Dean was very familiar with his skill of escaping their dad's endless drilling, and usually quickly intervened before their dad could notice.

There was something that was bothering Sam though, and it was making him edgy. He was beginning to think that he was seeing things, because every now and then something would flicker at the edge of his vision, but whenever he turned to look at it, nothing would be there. It was starting to frustrate him, but short of gouging his own eyes out, there wasn't much he could do with it besides try to ignore it and get on with the job.

With a heavy heart, and a weariness that dragged at his limbs, Sam forced himself to tune back in to his father's and Dean's conversation.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_"You'll never be what they are," _someone said behind Sam.

He whirled around, his rock salt filled shot gun raised and ready to fire. Dean and his father were somewhere up ahead on the trail. He had been assigned as rear guard, but had fallen behind quickly.

Before him stood a young woman. Her hair was tied back in a messy pony tail, and she wore hiker's shorts, boots and a plain tank top. She was also very see through, but for once, the spark of anticipation and determination that accompanied a spirit wasn't present. The air was cold around him, and she was staring at him with empty eyes and a blank face.

"_You're not like them, are you?" _she whispered to him.

Sam was frozen to the spot, unable to move and strangely captivated by the words that were flowing out of the spirit before him. He knew she was a violent spirit, who drove people to their deaths, but he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger for once.

It was like he was paralyzed, and he realized, vaguely, somewhere at the back of his mind, that this must be how she snared her victims.

"_You're like me. Different from the rest, not the same. A freak like me. You're not like them..."_

At this point, Sam was scared. He was trembling, knew he was in trouble, but he still couldn't move. There was sorrow in her voice, a wistful longing that struck at his very core and made him ache anew with the loss of dreams unfulfilled.

"_I can help you, you know. I can help you be like them..."_

_"_What do you mean," he croaked out, his throat seizing up. "I don't know what you want from me..."

"_Doesn't matter. None of it matters. All that matters is that you'll be like me. Special. Treasured. Protected."_

_"_I don't know what that means," Sam managed, gasping as the wind around them whipped the trees about furiously. Rain was beginning to drive itself down from the skies, quickly soaking him to the skin and plastering his hair to his forehead.

The girl, flicked and vanished before reappearing in front of him. Sam was forced down onto his knees, as if a giant hand was pulling him down and trying to make him one with the earth.

She was looking down at him, her head tilted sideways and her eyes finally alight with something akin to interest.

"_I can help you, you know..."_

"Help me with what?" he whispered, his words almost drowned out by the raging of the storm around them.

"_They don't need you like this. A burden to them, a murderer, a killer a freeloader."_

_"_I'm not..."

"_You're special like me. You'll never be what they are. But I can help you..."_

Sam's head was spinning now and he felt almost dizzy. He shivered when the ghost reached out a hand and stroked his cheek.

"_Special..."_

There was a blinding pain, and a pressure building briefly in his mind before it all feel into darkness...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"...what to do...he can't..."

Someone's voice was buzzing in and out of his mind as Sam slowly woke up. He could hear other voices too, unfamiliar and also drifting in and out of hearing range. He felt strange. Like he was himself but someone else.

Sam blinked gritty eyes open and was faced with a stained and dirty ceiling. With a frown on his face he tried to remember where he was and how he had gotten there, all the while trying to shake off the inexplicable panic that he could feel rising within him.

Last thing he remembered was rain on his face, and feeling colder than ever The memories were slowly creeping back to him like a whipped dog crept back to its master for comfort. Seeping, like moisture slowly overwhelming hard denim.

The ghost. Whispering to him, talking to him, telling him things that he had always suspected but couldn't possibly be true. Could they?

_All that matters is that you'll be like me..._

_They don't need you like this_

_Murderer_

_Burden_

_I can help you be like them..._

He could still hear her voice, still whispering to him somewhere at the edge of his awareness, talking, whispering, tormenting him with her lies.

They weren't true, couldn't ever be true. He was normal, and he always had been. An ordinary person living an extraordinary life.

Wasn't he?

Sam shot upright in his bed as a flash of pain shot through his mind, making him gasp involuntarily. Her voice was stronger, more audible, but sounded like it was coated in static, fading in and out.

He was barely aware of Dean and his father at his side. The heavy warmth of their hands on his bare flesh made his skin crawl, making him shudder. He jerked away and scrambled backwards until his back hit something solid; the headboard of the bed he was on.

"Sam?" Dean was asking. "What's wrong?"

Sam shook his head, unsure how to answer the question. How do you tell someone that you're hearing voices in your head? You couldn't. Not without sounding crazy, and Sam knew that he wasn't crazy. Or at least, that's what he hoped.

He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them and buried his head in his arms.

_Make a less of a target of yourself, _his fathers long forgotten words sounded in his head. _When you're in trouble, and forced to take cover, make as small a target of yourself as possible. Give them less to target and the chances are, you won't get hit._

"Samuel," his father's voice made him jump, but he didn't raise his head, couldn't because his head was pounding, throbbing with emotions that he couldn't recognize, and wasn't even sure if they were his at all. He felt heavy, like a lead ball dropped into a body of water, like he was sinking and could hardly breath.

"I need you to tell me what happened out there."

Sam shook his head, and that seemed to start off something that he couldn't control. He was shivering uncontrollably, like he was cold when he actually wasn't. He felt Dean's arm's wrap around him, but the weight of them set his skin on fire, made his feel like he was falling and being crushed at the same time. He couldn't bring himself to shake them off.

"Sam? Tell us what's wrong so we can fix it," Dean whispered to him.

Sam shook his head again. How could you fix something when you didn't even know what was wrong?

He could feel the heavy presences of his father and his brother pressing in on him, suffocating in their intensity and the anger that they carried around with them like shields.

All the while, those voices in his head refused to be silenced.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

They became like some sort of lullaby to him as time passed, and he found himself listening to them more and more often. They grew louder when they were on a hunt, clamoring in his head for attention, but it was always that girls voice which came through the clearest.

Sam was unsure where the line between reality and illusion was anymore, but something told him that he had passed it miles ago and there was no way of getting back.

He wasn't sure what his father and brother thought of his insanity, but they were always careful of him, always treated him like he was made of glass and that the smallest thing would set him off. As it had been when he was younger, Dean took over the majority of his care, calming him when he was distressed, and making sure he ate well, showered and rested as often as possible. Sometimes Sam felt as if he would never be clean again, like the voices were tainting him physically as well as well as mentally. Sometimes the blaring of other peoples emotions was like someone yelling in his ear through a megaphone, and it was then that he couldn't stand the touch of another person. He couldn't go anywhere where there were crowds because the noise was too much.

Everything was too much for all of them. He could feel Dean's despair in everything he did. He could sense his father's helpless rage and his impatience wherever he went. Even Sam wasn't sure what was wrong with him. They had remained in Idaho for another two weeks, trying to find out what had gone wrong, what had happened to Sam. The ghost had been vanquished that night, John and Dean having put her to rest before returning to find Sam unconscious on the ground. So there was no way he could still be hearing her in his head, was there? If she was dead, then she was gone.

Of course, Sam hadn't managed to tell them what had happened to him, how she had talked to him and delved out his deepest fears. He didn't speak much at all, only a couple of words here and there, and most of them to Dean.

There were times when he wrote feverishly in his journal for hours while Dean and his father slept. Afterwards, he could never remember what he had written about, or why, and none of what he had written ever made any sort of logical sense. Dean and John had both read it, several times over with puzzled frowns on their faces. Sam never missed the strange looks they shot him as they did so.

So they were making their way to Bobby's to see if he could help with Sam's "problem". John had some vague suspicion that it was a demon, playing with Sam's mind. Sam had gone through the motions of having Holy Water thrown at him, rituals and blessing and exorcisms performed on him. Nothing had happened and nothing had worked. Sam remained in the same half awake state, unless he had been worked up into a panicked frenzy by something, whether it be one of the voices in his head or someone touching him.

As they made their way to Bobby's state of residence, they had stopped along the way to deal with a few hunts, and it was then that Sam was the worst. He could feel each spirit scream within his soul as they were sent to wherever it was they were going, could feel the burn throughout his body. John had taken to leaving Dean with Sam whenever a hunt was necessary. Sam would sit on his bed, arms wrapped around himself and rocking back and forth as he shivered uncontrollably. Whenever he felt that moment approaching, when the spirit of whatever it was would be destroyed, he would often start crying because their pain was his pain, and their voices blended with the ones in his head to form one drawn out scream. Dean had bought him a set of head phones and an MP3 player, which helped.

There was still some part of Sam that was intact though, that could think logically when it wasn't forced to slumber. In the back of his head he knew that the way he was acting wasn't normal, that he was insane. There were times when he held almost normal conversations with Dean, and he could see the joy that this caused Dean, and the hope it inspired in him. He thought that it gave Dean something to hold on to, and a reason to keep pushing on.

But Sam was so tired. He didn't sleep well any more, and that small part of him that was normal still felt empty and helpless. There was no way he could fully describe to Dean or their father what it was like being a prisoner within his own mind without scaring them witless. Sam on the other hand, was way past scared witless and had moved onto acceptance. There was probably no cure for whatever was wrong with him and that thought often had him lapsing into periods of despondency that became harder and harder to fight his way out of.

On the last leg of their journey to Bobby's Sam had been quiet. He had managed to quell the mutterings that sometimes burst out without him realizing, and he felt calmer than he had for awhile. Maybe it was because Dean and his father had lapsed into their own world of thought, calm and thoughtful as opposed to their normal charged and tense states of being. That, in effect, made Sam calmer. Their emotions weren't raging in his head for a change and he found that he was thinking almost separately from the voices for once.

Maybe it was the vast openness of the land around them. Nothing but trees and grass and rocks; no people. No complicated emotions, no spirits, or monsters of things that screamed in his head.

_"It won't last, you know," _she was back again and Sam shook his head, closing his eyes and breathing deeply like Dean had taught him whenever he was feeling overwhelmed.

It wasn't often he had the energy to fight the voices anymore, especially hers. But he listened and rarely acted upon their suggestions. Listening didn't hurt anyone but himself, and it was better that way.

"_You know that they want to get rid of you. That you're nothing but a burden to them any more. They don't like carting you around, and you know it.'_

Sam smothered helpless laughter. She always knew how to hit the most sensitive spots, and she was always improving. The most bizarre part of it was that he still didn't know who she was, or what her name was.

"_They're red. Bright red and you know what that means. It means they're angry. They're angry with you for being different like me. You and me are blue. Deep deep blue like the ocean and it swallows us whole but doesn't spit us out."_

Sam shook his head again before leaning against the window and staring out at the orange and purple sky of sunset. She didn't often make sense, but sometimes he could understand her meanings. And this was one of those times.

"_We're trapped, you and me, and there's no way out. We're prisoners to them, and their own needs. They won't let us go. Let's just go. You and me, to somewhere we can be different without them and their red."_

_"_Sam. We're here. Are you hearing me?"

Sam opened his eyes and looked at Dean, who was watching him from the front seat. He nodded mutely and looked out the window at Bobby's house and the junk yard jungle beyond. There was a time when he and Dean had run wild in that jungle, playing games that no one else knew how to play.

"_You and me can play some games, Sammy," _she whispered again. "_They don't even have to play with us. We can jump from the roof and fly away from them. No nets, no leashes, nothing to hold us down. We can be freed."_

Sam shook his head and got out of the car when Dean opened his door.

"C'mon Sammy. We'll go say hi to Bobby and then you can have a shower and a nap. I know you're tired."

Sam nodded his agreement to Dean and followed him up the stairs to where his father and Bobby stood talking in quiet voices. Bobby turned to greet them as they reached the porch, shaking Dean's hand and smiling at him before turning to Sam.

"Hey Sammy, how're you doing?" he asked with a kindly smile on his face and his hand extended

Sam looked at him for a moment, unsure what his intentions were and distracted by the girl's whispering in his head. A persistent flickering caught his attention on the other side of the porch and he turned to look at it, wondering just how well protected Bobby's place was.

"_No where is safe for us, Sammy. We must leave..."_

Sam started to back away a few steps, aware that Bobby and his father were watching him and feeling that rising tide of panic begin to grip him. He wanted to leave. It wasn't safe and he would have turned and ran had it not been for Dean gently taking his elbow, his grip firm yet gentle.

"He's tired."

Bobby nodded.

"Your usual rooms are just as you left them. You know where everything is, right?"

"Take him upstairs and get him settled while I talk to Bobby, okay Dean?" John's voice was strong and too loud for Sam's ears and he winced, not liking the tension he could feel vibrating in the air.

"Yes sir," Dean murmured, before steering Sam around the two and opening the door for him. Sam stepped into the cool darkness of Bobby's house and paused a moment to look around. The place was cramped with books, every surface covered with paper, manuals and weapons in various stages of dismantlement.

Dean gave him a moment to take in his surroundings before he guided him towards the stairs. Sam followed him obediently, because even within the depths of his insanity he knew that he was safe with Dean.

He stood still as he watched Dean dump their bags on the twin singles in their room. His older brother moved with a quickness and efficiency that Sam knew he himself should possess but didn't. No energy was wasted on unnecessary movement, a sign that Dean was indeed a hunter, and someone who knew how to survive in any situation by conserving what energy he had.

Before he knew what was happening, Dean had run him a hot bath.

"Get undressed Sammy and hop in. The shampoo and the soaps over there. I'll be back in a few," Dean told him.

Sam stood still, absorbing the quiet that surrounded him. It was the first time that he had been truly alone in days. Even the voices in his head were muted for the time being, and the feeling of being so completely alone, something he would have welcomed not too long ago, was starting to scare him.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**:_All characters and concepts to do with supernatural belong to their rightful owner. I make no profit from this work of my imagination_

**Warnings:**_Angst, swearing subjects which could offend. Very slight Wincest and bad editing on my behalf. All mistakes are entirely my fault, as I do all the editing!  
_

**Author's Note**: _This story has become a monster that I can't control...Someone please save me..._

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**Part Two**: A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal

Dean sat on the edge of his bed and dropped his head into his hands. He was so tired, so mentally exhausted that he felt as if he had aged twenty years. It was only when he felt as tired as he did that he started to truly feel the regrets that his lifestyle came hand in hand with.

Sam wasn't getting better. He spent more and more time lost within the tatters of his own mind. Dean had no idea what was wrong with him and that was something that he was unused to. Sam was depressed he knew that. He had known that since before the whole thing had started, but he hadn't done anything about it.

And now there was something else, something that had been shaken loose within his younger brothers mind that needed to be mended. But no one knew how. Sam barely spoke. And when he did, what he said made little sense, like talking to a young child. He always succeeded in freaking Dean and their father out with the strange and chilling revelations that Sam often unleashed at the worst possible times.

Dean was so tired that he felt as if it was him who was sick and not Sam. All he had was looking after Sam, and he never once grew weary of doing so. He liked helping Sam, because he knew that somewhere in there was his little brother, trapped and waiting to be freed. If it took him a hundred years, he wouldn't care, as long as there was hope for Sam.

Looking after Sam kept him sane. It was a job he had been doing for years, and he wasn't about to quit. He missed his brother, and he'd do anything to get him back. He missed the stupid fights and the pranks and the way it felt when they worked and accomplished things as a team. Sam was his better half, and he knew it better than he knew anything. And his better half was suffering from something that wasn't easily fixed, but there was no way that Dean was giving up on him. Because if he did, what hope was there for Sam?

With that in his mind, he set about getting clean clothes and a towel together for Sam. He hated leaving him alone for any amount of time for fear that Sam might do something to hurt himself in order to escape whatever it was that was plaguing on his fragile mind.

As he walked down the hallway, he heard a small sound from the bathroom that grabbed his attention and had him hurrying into the small space.

Sam was rubbing at his eyes, looking very much like the kid he had once been an age ago. Seeing the suds in his hair, Dean knew immediately what was wrong. He set the clothes he was carrying down and crouched next to the bath tub.

"Hey hey. Hold on a sec Sammy." he murmured.

Carefully, he scooped up some water and rinsed the shampoo away from his eyes.

"There you go. That should be better," he said. He sat back for a moment, studying Sam quizzically.

The youngest Winchester looked like shit. The bags under his eyes had become permanent bruises from lack of sleep. His normally clear gray eyes were dulled with exhaustion and the toll his illness had taken on his mind. While Dean had made sure that he ate well and rested as much as possible, Sam had lost weight. He seemed thinner, smaller under his hands, almost like he would break at the first gust of wind.

Stubble layered his brothers cheeks and jaw, belying the childlike quality of his state of mind and appearance.

"You need a shave, dude," he said. "How about we get you finished in here and I'll do it for you?"

As usual, there was no response from his sibling, but then, Dean hadn't expected any. He liked it best when Sam seemed more lucid and was actually able to reply in some form or another. The silence from Sam worn on his nerves and his resolve, threatening to break through his facade and reveal just how broken up he was about Sam's state of being.

"Do you remember that time dad took us to Lake Ontario that summer when you were fifteen?" Dean asked quietly as he picked up the flannel and started to slowly wash his brother's back. "That was a good summer, wasn't it? You and me swum out further than anyone else just to see how far we could get." Dean chuckled. "Dad got so mad at us because he thought we would drown. But I knew we wouldn't. Not you and me, Sammy. We would never drown, because we had each other, remember?"

Sam was listening to him, Dean knew, because he was tilting his head like he did whenever he was paying attention. Whether it was what he was saying that he was paying attention to, or just the sound of his voice, Dean didn't care. He was willing to lose himself in his memories for the time being.

That had been a good summer. The sky had been bluer than he could ever remember it, the sun blazing away. The water had been cool on his burnt skin, and Sam's smile had been brighter than anything, his laughter infectious. They had swum until they had exhausted themselves, then crawled up onto the sand and lay still in the warm sun until it had set and their dad had called them in to do their chores.

He could remember watching the gulls fly over head and wondering what it would be like to have the freedom to soar like they did in the sky. He remembered the way Sam had voiced that same question just as he had been thinking it.

Those three days holiday that their dad had granted them ranked up there amongst the best times of Dean's life. Running along the sand and wrestling with Sam, bathing in his laughter and the sunlight were memories that would live on within Dean for the years to come. They would buoy him through his darkest hours, he hoped, and right then with Sam when things were spiraling out of control he was holding onto that hope tighter than he did anything else.

"Dad made you detail the car."

Sam hoarse voice made him jump and he sat still for a moment before resuming his task.

"Yeah. That car sparkled so much it looked like it had come straight off the factory floor," Dean laughed and shook his head.

"He was so angry..." Sam whispered, and Dean didn't miss the small shudder that rippled through his brother.

"Do you remember how he sat beneath that tree on the grass and watched us swimming?" Dean asked, trying to divert his attention back from whatever dark path it was straying down.

"No matter what we did he wouldn't swim with us..." Sam's voice was faint, like his mind was off somewhere else, and Dean hoped that he was remembering those three days as he had.

"Come on, buddy. Let's dry you off and have a go at your face, huh? You're starting to look like Chewbacca."

Dean held onto him as Sam stood up, keeping him steady as he stepped out of the bath. He wrapped his brother in a large worn towel and rubbed him dry, scuffing at his head before he helped him step into a pair of cotton sleeping pants and an old t-shirt.

He situated Sam on the closed toilet and set about carefully spreading shaving cream on his face.

"Why are you angry?"

Sam, as usual, hadn't lost his ability to ask surprising questions. Dean stopped what he was doing long enough to look into his brothers eyes to find him staring back, his eyes intent.

"I'm not angry," Dean replied, going back to what he was doing.

Sam let his silence speak for him, and Dean sighed, glancing up at his brother as he spread the cream smoothly over his jaw.

"Well, I'm not angry with you," he amended himself. "I'm angry with...everything. With Dad for thinking that there's some Demon screwing with your head. I'm angry with myself because I didn't do anything to stop this from happening. I should have done something more to protect you. Now you're like this and...and you won't or can't tell us what's wrong..."

Dean found himself swallowing a lump the size of Texas that had lodged itself in his throat and blinking back tears. He resisted looking into Sam's eyes though, and instead picked up the razor and began to carefully run it over Sam's cheeks, pausing to wash it off in the sink next to them before continuing.

Sam hadn't said anything since his confession, and Dean assumed that he had retreated back behind his shield of silence.

There was nothing quite like watching a person surrender to the horrors of the mind, Dean decided. It was essentially watching someone self-destruct, driving themselves further and further until there was nothing left. To Dean it was worse than death, living nightmares, fighting your own mind. But having to play the spectator was probably even worse, especially when it was a loved one who was suffering.

He wished that their dad would just knuckle down and get Sam professional help. No matter how their lifestyle restricted what they could and couldn't do, it was cruel to deny Sam the kind of relief he needed. Besides, Dean suspected that it was their lifestyle that had contributed to Sam's unexpected breakdown.

If only they had let him go to college, let him live out his dreams. Then maybe at least he would have had a chance, and he wouldn't have gotten stuck in the downward spiral that had crept upon them unnoticed. If only Sam had been able to summon enough courage to walk away from them for good. Sure, it would have broken Dean's heart, but at least that would have been better than watching Sam suffer.

He loved Sam more than anything and anyone. Perhaps he loved him more than he should, in a way that he shouldn't, but it was that love that had kept Sam protected, maybe selfishly on Dean's behalf. Because he never wanted Sam to leave him. He didn't want to be lonely, and Sam had always been his partner in crime, his comrade, brother of his heart.

Dean smiled to himself sadly as he used a wet face cloth to wipe off the remnants of shaving cream on Sam's cheeks. The skin was smooth and clean, and Sam smelled like heaven.

"There," he murmured. "All done. Now, let's get you to bed so you can get some rest."

Dean went to get up but Sam's hand clamped around his wrist and pulled him back.

"Not your fault," Sam whispered hoarsely. "Mine. All mine. That's what they say..."

Dean froze before he covered Sam's hand in his own.

"Who said that Sam?"

A tiny smile tugged at Sam's lips, his eyes more haunted than he had ever seen. It tore a gaping hole in Dean's chest seeing Sam so jaded before him, as if everything good in his life had been drained from him.

"The voices in my head. They say...they show me things, let me feel things. I feel everything, Dean. _Everything..."_

Dean watched as twin tears trickled down Sam's freshly shaven cheeks, his heart breaking with fear and pain. Sam was hearing voices. Sam was seeing things that weren't there, and Dean knew that Sam was already partly lost to him. Things clicked into place as he put the pieces together; unexplainable things that Sam did or said that hadn't made sense at the time.

"Like what Sam? What do they tell you?" Dean urged quietly.

He needed to keep Sam talking. The more he learned, the more information he gathered, the better chances Sam had of getting better.

"That I should run. It's not safe here. We need to go, Dean. You and me, we need to run away now," Sam's voice became strained, his fear and panic becoming more evident by the second as his eyes darted towards the door and his body tensed.

Dean gripped his jaw and turn his face back towards him, ignoring the flinch when his fingers made contact.

"Listen to me, Sam. You're safe here. I'll make sure of it. Just stay with me and I'll protect you from whatever it is, okay?" Dean kept his voice low and soothing, hoping to ease Sam's fears by keeping calm himself. It wouldn't do to show just how freaked out he was himself.

"She tells me things, Dean, she talks to me in my head and I can feel her all the time, saying...lies and rumors and it's not true, none of it's real and we need to get away before they come to get us. They're coming to get us Dean, we need to run..." Sam was babbling so fast that Dean could barely make out his words. His eyes were wild, darting around the room, fighting against Dean's hold and trying to get up.

"Sam, listen to me. Listen," he gripped Sam's wrists harder as his brother tried to twist them out of his. "Are you listening to me Sammy?"

"There's no time Dean, we need to go..."

"No, Sammy," Dean said forcefully. "No, we're safe and you need to calm down. Listen to my voice, Sam, not theirs. Can you hear me?"

Sam nodded, though his eyes didn't rest on Dean at all, and his body was tense.

"Feel me here, Sam. I'm right here with you. I'm not going to leave you to them, you understand me? We'll find a way out of this. Just you and me, like those days by the lake. Do you remember that?" Dean was babbling himself, but it didn't matter. He needed to keep talking, for both their sakes, because if he broke down as he wanted to, Sam would surely bolt. "I'm not going to let them win, Sam. I'm right here."

Dean wrapped his arms around Sam and pulled him tightly against his chest. Sam's arms were trapped between them, and he pushed hard into Dean's chest, trying to get as close as possible. Dean just held onto him tighter, rock steady so they wouldn't fall backwards. At least Sam wasn't fighting him anymore, and his panic had died down for the time being. He was trembling though, Dean could feel that right down to the depths of his soul.

"I'm scared, Dean..."

That whispered confession was the straw that broke the camels back. Tears trickled down Dean's cheeks and he fought to hold in the sobs that were tearing at his throat. Sam calmed down in his arms surprising quickly, but Dean's silent tears didn't stop.

After a few minutes, as Dean's knees began to ache from the cold tiles beneath him, Sam pulled back, his eyes bright but calm as they gazed down at him. Dean couldn't look away from him, couldn't tear his eyes away from the person who was a closer to him than anyone and yet a complete stranger in the same heartbeat.

He jumped when Sam raised a hand and brushed away his tears with gentle fingers and wonder in his eyes.

"Don't cry, Dean," he whispered. "She says that everything will be alright."

Dean shivered at his words but didn't look or move away. He was frozen like a deer in headlights as Sam leaned closer and brushed his lips against Dean's cheek before putting his mouth next to his ear.

"I want to get better," were the whispered, breathy words in his ear. "Will you help me get away, Dean?"

Sam's warm breath made him shiver.

"I'll help you, Sam. You know I will."

Sam sat back and smiled at him, calm and bright eyed in his insanity.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:**_The characters and Concepts of Supernatural belong to their rightful owner. I claim no ownership, nor make no profit from this work. _

**Warnings**:_Angst, some self harm, some swearing. Bad editing on my behalf! And some very slight Wincest_

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**Part Three:** Pray For Tomorrow, Work For Today

"I don't like it dad. I don't think this is a good idea..."

"I don't care if you don't like it Dean. We're going and that's final," John replied, his voice hard and his eyes blazing his intentions. "This guy might be Sam's last chance and we're going to investigate this until I'm satisfied, am I clear?"

Dean ran his hands through his hair before he shoved the last of his and Sammy's clothes into the remaining space in his duffle. Sam was sitting in the car waiting for them as they packed the last of their belongings before heading off to the next state. Bobby's contact there had agreed to try and help Sam if he could, but Dean was doubtful that he would be of any help. His dad seemed intent on dragging them both there, while Dean was becoming more and more convinced that Sam needed somewhere to settle down for awhile so he could form some solid roots that would help him in his recovery. He was also convinced that Sam would benefit from some professional help, and that their dad was becoming more stubborn as the years passed.

John was convinced that Sam was being messed around with by some supernatural entity. But Dean knew better. He hadn't told their father of what Sam had revealed in the bathroom two days ago. For some reason he was afraid to, afraid that John would look upon Sam in disgust, that he would reject him as some kind of freak. Call it what you would, but Dean felt even more protective of Sam than he had when he was a five year old who ran around and got into trouble at the blink of an eye.

"Dad." Dean tried again, not hoping much. He sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, praying for some kind of patience. "I think there's something else we need to consider here."

That seemed to stop his father in his frenzied packing, making him straighten up and walk over to him. John Winchester sat on the bed facing Dean and looked older than he ever had before. Dean studied the lines that tiredness and grief had etched into his father's face over the years and wondered if he would look the same in a couple of years. If Sam would get the chance to grow old.

"What is it Dean?" he asked wearily.

Dean sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair once more before starting to gnaw at his thumbnail.

"Have you...considered the fact that maybe Sam's just...Maybe Sam needs help of a different kind? I don't know what made him like this, but I can't think of anything else. Maybe we should find somewhere that he can stay for awhile, you know?"

He watched as his father ground his hands into his eyes before rubbing them over his face and getting up. He paced away a few steps before turning back to face him, his eyes calculating and sad.

"Just...hear me out, okay dad?" Dean asked. At his father's tight nod, he continued. "I honestly don't think that whatever this is is supernatural. It just...it doesn't fit you know? We've checked every source, nothing we know fits his symptoms."

Dean got to his feet and started pacing the perimeter of the room, clasping his hands behind his head.

"It doesn't make any sense. You know it doesn't. Whatever's wrong with him has to be in his head, it has to be."

"Dean."

He was halted by his father's hands grasping his shoulders.

"Calm down. I know, okay?" his father's voice was rough, but steady despite the sorrow in his eyes. He felt like he had been slapped.

"You do?"

"I do."

"Then why..."

"It's your turn to listen now, son," John paused and exhaled, his hands not moving from Dean's shoulders. "I realize that what you're saying is probably true. I know that, okay? We need to make sure that it isn't anything supernatural before we decide what to do next."

"So what. We start looking for a clinic somewhere?" Dean asked hesitantly.

John shook his head and turned away at last, pushing his fingers into his eyes.

"I don't know. I just...I can't stand the thought of him being locked up somewhere. He won't be able to get out if something goes wrong. We couldn't keep an eye on him. Do you really want to see him locked up in a room alone?"

Dean swallowed the grief that wanted to consume him, swallow him whole and never spit him out again. He was so tempted to just give in to it that he wondered if this was what Sam felt whenever he listened to those voices.

"I don't want that either. But if that's what it takes to get him better, then..."

"I has to be done, I know," Dean whispered, looking down at where his hands.

"Look, the reason why I want to take Sammy to this guy is because he has contacts. His name is Joshua. He's an ex-army medic who apparently knows his stuff. Hunters go to him when they have injuries they don't want to explain to the authorities. You know the kind of injuries I'm talking about," John raised his eyebrows and Dean nodded again.

"He probably knows a thing or two about whatever it is that's wrong with Sammy. Okay? So...we're going to take him there and make a decision based on what he says. I don't like it any more than you do, but..."

His father was interrupted by the distinct sound of gunfire. For a moment they stood there, staring at each other. Dean felt the blood drain out of his face before he started bolting for the door. It only took a second to register the fact that the Impala was empty, one of the back doors left open. He had his gun out without thinking about it, and his father was at his side as they raced towards the sound of the screaming coming from the reception area.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Dean heard his father swear, and can't help repeating that phrase in his mind, over and over as they burst into the reception with their guns at the ready.

It wasn't anything like he was expecting. The man and woman who owned the out of the way motel were huddled against the front of the counter, hugging each other and trying to stifle their crying.

Sam was rock steady, gun pointed down at them, eyes staring straight at them. And he was covered in blood. It was his own, that much was obvious.

His father signaled for him to lower his gun and they moved slowly forward until they were standing either side of Sam. Most of the blood was from an open wound on Sam's forehead and from his nose. It was splattered on his plain white t-shirt, vividly, sickeningly crimson. Dean couldn't read Sam for a change, and that scared him more that the stillness that had encased him.

"What are you doing, Sam?" John asked quietly. He made no move to take the gun from Sam, and Dean stayed quiet, letting his father take the lead for once.

"They're bad people," was the immediate answer. "They need to die."

"No, Sam. They're not bad. They're just people. And you're going to hurt them. Not anything else, not any monster, you. Are you going to become a monster by shooting them?"

Dean saw the way his brothers forehead wrinkled in confusion, the trembling of his mouth that showed his indecision. There was a slight tremor in his hands, the gun shivering minutely.

"I...I...No..." was mumbled response.

"Then why don't you give Dean the gun and we can get going?" John continued, his eyes kindly, and his manner friendly, chiding. "We can put this nonsense behind us and get a move on, eh?"

"No, I just...they're bad people." Sam insisted, more forcefully despite the tears that were starting to fall. "They hurt people. They're monsters."

"Look at them Sam. Just look at them for a moment. Are they hurting anyone right now?"

Sam shook his head and started to back away raising his hands up to his head with the gun still in them. Dean felt a flash of fear grip his heart at the position of the gun.

"I don't know...I just..." Sam was whimpering

Dean had seen enough. He moved forward swiftly, easing the gun out of Sam's hands and tucking it into his belt. Sam sagged against him but Dean caught him and held him upright.

"That's enough, Sammy. How about we go and have a look at your head, hmm? Get you all fixed up and then you can have a rest in the car, okay?"

Sam's staring numbly at some point in front of them, unresponsive and looking like he was in some kind of shock.

Dean glances at his father as he leads Sam out into the bright sunlight and towards the car. No one needs to point out the fact that they're no longer welcome.

He wonders if Sam hears the shouting that follows their exit.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sam had made himself bleed by beating his head repeatedly against the edge of the open window. Dean can see a smear of blood coating the dark metal and the leather just underneath and wonders what drove his younger brother to hurting himself. He makes it a point to quickly wipe it all away before Sam sits back there again.

So he sits in the back with Sam, who's wound is covered by a patch and tape. Their father is driving silently in the front, eyes focused on the road stretching out before them. The radio is playing quietly but Dean can't make out the words.

Sam's head is pillowed on his lap; he's asleep for a change, full of painkillers. Dean can see the deepening shadows beneath his eyes, the lines of pain etched around his eyes and mouth. The weight loss is becoming more and more obvious with each passing day, his cheek bones protruding and his cheeks hollowing. His hair is lank and dull.

Dean looks ahead at the road and prays for some kind of salvation from this particular version of hell. He waits, Sam slumbering on, for the hours to pass until they finally meet this mysterious friend of Bobby's.

That night they bunked down in an out of the way motel, John and Dean keeping a wary and nervous eye on Sam, who for the most part seemed tired and willing to sleep. They shared a single room, John taking one bed with Sam on the other and Dean on the floor.

Dean's sleep was restless and more exhausted than anything as he fell in and out of a light slumber. Therefore, it didn't take much to wake him. When he woke for what had to be the hundredth time that night, it was to Sam holding his hand, his fingers stroking gently as he watched Dean sleep.

"Whatcha doing down here Sammy? You should be in bed," Dean mumbled as he tried to gather his wits about him. He squinted up at the bright glow of the alarm clock and determined that it was a quarter past two in the morning. He groaned and let his head drop back onto his too lumpy pillow.

"Couldn't sleep anymore," Sam confessed, his voice quiet.

Dean closed his eyes and swallowed, hating the tired, grittiness of his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but Sam was there and seemingly more lucid than he usually was and he wasn't going to waste the opportunity to spend a little time with the old Sam.

"I'm not surprised. You slept for eleven hours straight," Dean replied, exhaling slowly and blinking lazy eyes at his brother.

"I did?"

"Mmm hmmm." Deans eyes were drifting closed of their own accord, despite all his attempts to keep them open.

"Dean?"

"Yeah Sammy."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Dean opened his eyes fully and looked at his brother. His gray eyes were sad and with his hands pillowed beneath his cheek, he looked like the little boy he had once been. It made Dean's heart ache with longing, but he managed to smile anyway and reach out a hand to stroke his cheek with gentle fingers, being careful not to make his flinch with any sudden moves. Sam allowed it for a change, and his eyes lowered slightly, his eyelashes seeming longer and fuller than Dean could ever remember.

"You didn't upset me. Just scared me a little is all. I was worried you were going to hurt yourself," Dean murmured in reply, entranced with the feeling of the soft, warm skin beneath his fingers. Sam was smooth and golden all over, never had pimples like most teenagers, no freckles to speak of. Just miles and miles of golden, sun kissed skin that was the envy of most people. Dean traced a finger over his cheek bones, down the razor straight length of his nose before brushing his fingers over the strong jaw line and stroking gently into the grooves of his dimples.

Sam lay still and let him, his unwavering gaze fixed on Dean's face. It had been a form of interaction between them that had existed since they were babies really. Dean would perform the exact same actions whenever Sam had been upset, sad or scared; it was his way of showing Sam that he loved him, thought he was perfect just the way he was. Sam had always calmed under his touch, staying still as Dean memorized every inch of his face, over and over and over for hours.

"I dream of fire, you know," Sam's comment was off hand and casual, but the words stopped Dean's heart mid beat.

"You...what?" he breathed, his hand stilling and his eyes fixated on Sam so hard his head was aching.

"I dream of fire. I think it's her way of letting me know that I'm burning." Sam's voice was distant, his eyes unfocused, though they were still trained on Dean's face.

"Burning? What are you talking about, Sam? You're not burning," Dean managed to force out.

"Not on the outside. On the inside," Sam replied, as if it were obvious. "I'm burning from the inside. She says that when the burnings finished, they'll be nothing left of me. But she does lie. She told me that you and dad were bad people. Murderer's, just like me. She wanted me to kill you, you know. Said it was justice. But I told her I wouldn't do it. Told her that I loved you both, and even if you're both bad people, I still wouldn't kill either of you. Do you see Dean?"

Dean's throat worked, but he was shell shocked and numb, not sure what to think. Hell, his dad would probably know what to say. But he was stuck like a pig in mud, and Sam's eyes were shining brightly at him in the muted moon light. So maybe he hadn't been as lucid as Dean had first thought...

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said urgently.

Dean blinked, pulling himself from his thoughts and really looking at Sam. Now he just looked scared and desperate, and Dean felt his tongue become unglued from the roof of his mouth.

"I don't know what I'm saying anymore Dean. I want it to go away. I want it all to go away. I want to go away..." Sam had bought his hands up to cover his face, but Dean could still see the glistening tears that were making their way down his face.

"Turn around Sammy. Take off your shirt," Dean said roughly, fighting back his own tears.

Sam obeyed without question, stripping off his shirt, rolling over and drawing his knees up to his chest so he could wrap his arms around them. Dean looked at the long expanse of his back before him, all the smooth skin there calling to him. This was Sam. His Sam, and he loved him no matter what was wrong with him. Sam changed as frequently as the weather, and Dean really should have been used to it long ago. This was just another form of Sam, and he'd go out of his way to show his younger brother just how much he loved him.

Reaching out a hand that shook only a little, he rested it for a moment on his back, feeling him breathe, the heat of him sinking into Dean, running up his arm and wrapping itself around his heart. A moment later he started tracing shapes and words on Sam's back, just like they had when they were kids.

"What does that say, Dean," Sam asked after Dean finished writing something.

"What do you think it says?" he countered, smiling. The familiarity of the routine warmed Dean, and made him relax more than he had in months.

"I love you?" Sam asked tentatively.

"Right on, little brother," Dean smiled to himself and started drawing something else.

TBC

A/N: This whole drawing on the back thing is something me and my two brothers used to do when we were little. We'd draw pictured on each others backs or feet and the other had to guess what we were drawing. Fond memories...

Let me know what you think!

And I haven't abandoned my other stories! They're works in progress!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:**_The characters and concepts of Supernatural belong to their creator, and not me. I make no profit from this!_

**Warnings:**_Swearing, violence and subjects which could offend._

**Author's Note**: _This will probably be one of the last chapters of this story. I plan on one more chapter (mostly written) and an epilogue to follow. So, let me know what you think! I appreciate any input you can give!_

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**Part Four: **_Let Us Leave This Place Where The Smoke Blows Black_

They didn't make it to Red Feather Lakes in Colorado.

Sam broke down ten miles away from Joshua's house. He wouldn't eat anything, wouldn't look either of them in the eye, didn't say anything that wasn't inaudible mutterings they could make no sense of. Dean and their father were helpless, powerless to do anything. Their father paced restless and tense around the bed that Sam was seated on, arms wrapped around his knees, face hidden.

He was wasting away. The bare truth of it was blaring in Dean's face, and he couldn't deny it any more. Sam had given in to his demons. He had put up a brave fight, held on longer than Dean probably could have, but in the end he had been defeated by himself.

He sat on the bed facing Sam, unable to look away from the broken down man before him. Dean had been with Sam his entire life; there was no way he was going to turn away from his demise. So he didn't eat anything either. He didn't sleep, didn't move didn't talk except to murmur reassurances to Sam, who seemed oblivious. But it made him feel better, made him concentrate on something other that the deep aching void that had torn his soul asunder.

Dean was vaguely aware of his father talking to someone on the phone, the only connection they had to the outside world anymore. The curtains were drawn tightly closed, the sign hung on the door that stated Do Not Disturb, the motel phone unplugged and the television switched off. All the weapons were locked away in the trunk of the Impala, thick salt lining the door and window.

The air was stale, and smelled like sweat and despair and the only constant noise was the grinding of the air conditioner and Sam's labored breathing.

Dean sat and watched Sam and lost himself in memories of their childhood. Of hours spent in the back of the car playing endless games and inventing stories to keep each other entertained. Of their dad leaning against the hood of the Impala studying maps as Dean chased Sam through an empty field by the roadside, the sunlight glinting off Sam's shiny hair and his bright smile. Of swimming in the cool waters of Lake Ontario, and late night movie marathons involving way too much junk food and pop.

The miles had passed them by unnoticed and unappreciated until they hadn't been able to go on anymore. Dean found himself longing for the days when the sound of car wheels on gravel roads and cool air blowing through the windows was all they knew. He wished with all his might that he and Sam were stuck back in the days when things weren't so complicated and they weren't so worn down and weary.

He found himself wishing that it was all a bad dream and that he'd wake up any minute with Sam's head heavy on his shoulder in the back seat and the sun hot on his sleep hazy skin.

Anything was better than the hell they were trapped in. Hell in the form of a motel room, and it was more ironic than Dean could appreciate. Their whole lives had found them calling motel rooms their only haven from the outside world, and to have one transformed into an inescapable cage was almost enough to make him laugh hysterically. He wondered if Sam's insanity was rubbing off on him.

Two sleepless days later their strained, tortured silence was broken by a steady knocking on the door that seemed to reverberate around the room. Sam didn't react but Dean turned an aching head to watch as their father strode over to the door and pulled it open. He watched dully as a tall, slender man stepped into the darkness of the room, a battered duffle in one hand that was soon discarded on a chair.

He wasn't sure if he liked the look of the bookish man who approached their bed. He wore worn jeans that looked too big, a plain gray sweater and a jacket that looked too much like their father's. This man was a hunter through and through; he had the same piercing eyes, the same precise movements. There was no way another hunter was getting near Sammy.

Dean was just starting to stir his exhausted body into action when his father lay a heavy hand on his shoulder and the man with too long hair and rectangle reading glasses smiled at him.

"It's okay Dean. This is Joshua. He's going to help Sam." John murmured in his ear.

Dean relaxed back, feeling the warmth of his father standing behind him like a beacon. For the first time in months he felt the first stirrings of hope. His father seemed so sure, and so strong that Dean couldn't find the energy to doubt him.

He watched like a hawk though, as Joshua stood at the edge of the bed and watched Sam for a long moment.

"Don't hurt him," Dean whispered hoarsely, his throat dry from long hours of disuse.

"I wouldn't dream of hurting him, Dean. I only want to help him get better," Joshua replied, his deep, smooth voice just as soft.

Dean nodded and shuffled back a little on the bed, moving closer to his father and making more room for the long, lanky stranger. The added space between him and Sam felt like empty miles that needed to be filled by him and Dean had to fight the urge to keep still. His father's warm hand anchored him, kept him focused. He was so tired. His eyes were heavy and gritty and he was in desperate need of a shower and a sleep, but he had sworn that he wouldn't rest until Sam was on the road to recovery so he forced himself to keep his eyes open so he could watch this stranger help Sam.

"Sam?" Joshua sat on the edge of the bed slowly, making no sudden movement so he wouldn't startle him. "Can you look at me Sam?"

His only answer was a barely visible shake of Sam's head and a very visible shudder. Joshua nodded to himself and situated himself a little more firmly on the bed, being careful not to block Sam's view of Dean.

"Okay then. My name is Joshua. Your father here called me because he thinks that I can help you get better."

There was still no response but Joshua seemed to take this in his stride and continued nevertheless. The deep, soothing timbre of his voice was having a calming effect on Dean and he leaned against his father almost boneless.

"I've helped people who have troubles like yours before Sam. They've gone on to live very full and happy lives. I'm sure I can help you if you want me to."

This finally garnered a response from his brother; one sunken, dull gray eye became visible as Sam turned his head a little, first resting on Dean and then Joshua.

"Who're you?" Sam whispered, his voice rough and strained.

"My name's Joshua, Sam. I live a little way from here in a nice house with two dogs. I'm a friend of Bobby's," Joshua replied placidly, not seeming surprised at having to repeat himself. "Do you want me to help you?"

Dean felt his father shifting restlessly behind him, and knew that he was stifling his impatience and the questions that were no doubt on the tip of his tongue. Dean prayed that he would stay quiet and let Joshua work. As it was, Sam was already showing more signs of alertness than he had in days. It was enough to reassure him that Joshua knew what he was doing, and that he might just be able to make a difference in Sam's life.

"Can you...can you make them stop?"

Joshua studied Sam for a brief moment. "Make who stop, Sam?"

"The people...voices...Don't make me repeat myself," Sam seemed a little panicked and shifted on the bed, burying his head back in his arms again and swaying a little where he sat.

"Okay, Sam. I'm just going to go over the other side of the room to talk to your father. Dean will stay right here with you, won't you Dean?" Joshua turned to look at Dean steadily, and he nodded in response, swallowing forcefully against the tightness in his throat.

"Of course."

He sat next to Sam and watched as Joshua led his father over towards the bathroom where they started to talk in quiet voices that he couldn't make out.

"Dean?"

He jumped, startled by Sam speaking his name for the first time in days. For a moment all he could do was stare at the shuddering figure at his side, but after a long moment with his heart in his throat and tears in his eyes, he moved closer, close enough to feel Sam's body heat but not actually touching.

"Yeah Sammy."

"Who is that man?"

Dean's heart was burning in his chest; Sam sounded so much like the little boy who he missed. Where had that curious child disappeared to? When had he transformed into the shadowed man beside him?

He wondered if this was what it was like to grow old. Would he feel as weary as he did at the moment? Dean hoped that life wouldn't always be so difficult, and painful because if it was, then he didn't want to live anymore. He had always kept living for the day when the simple act of breathing wouldn't be painful, and the future looked bright and peaceful for a change.

"That's Joshua, Sammy. You were just talking to him, remember?" Dean reminded him tiredly. "He wants to help you."

"I just...Dee..."

A moment later Sam was curling into him and burying his face under Dean's neck like he hadn't since he was seven years old. Dean closed his eyes as he wrapped his arms around him and held on tightly, letting the warmth of his brother reassure him that he was still alive and breathing. Still with them in a world that had turned its back and discarded them.

Sam was shivering against him, and he could feel the confusion rolling off of him in waves, but for once Dean had no words, nothing to comfort or reassure him with except his own warmth. It would have to do, for a little while longer.

- - - - - - - -- -- - - - - -- - - - - - -

Sam had fought them for a good twenty minutes before they finally had to force the sleeping pills into him. Dean had hated himself every second he had to hold Sam's legs still while Joshua and his father had gently yet firmly coaxed the pills into his mouth and subsequently made him swallow water. He could see the regret and sorrow on both of their faces as Sam curled into his side, tears running silently.

Dean wrapped his arms around him and rested his cheek against Sam's hair until the tears eventually tapered off and he fell into a drug induced sleep.

It had been their only option to get Sam to Joshua's home. He had flat out refused to get off the bed, let alone out of the room. Dean still didn't know what Joshua and his father had discussed, but he could tell it wasn't anything good from the slump in his father's shoulders and the dull exhaustion and acceptance in his eyes.

Still, he didn't say anything as John swung Sam into his arms (not an easy feat seeing as he was six foot four) and carried him out to the Impala. He bit his tongue as he watched Joshua gather their belongings and carry them outside. The bright sunlight spilling in through the open door way was unfamiliar and stung his sensitive eyes.

It was like another world out there now, and while he had always known that it was fraught with dangers and deceit, now it seemed all the more serious. Out there, anything could happen to Sam. Things were waiting to get him, and hurt him and take advantage. Dean had lost what little trust and faith he had in the world. Things that were once familiar and comforting to him had lost their appeal and were more alien to him than his own mind at times. Traps were waiting to be sprung on them, people and monsters were waiting to take advantage and Dean couldn't bear the thought of anything else happening to their torn and fragmented family.

One more strike, Dean thought to himself, and they'd break.

There had been times in the past when things had gotten rough and the days ahead had looked bleak. They had had no choice but to keep pushing forward, in the hopes that things would get better sooner rather than later. Wasn't that the way with everyone's life?

This time it seemed like things were darker and more depressing than ever before. At least that's how it seemed to Dean. Sam was spiraling out of control, Dean was breaking a little more each day having to watch him, and their father...well, he was getting even more weighed down by grief with each passing moment. Having to lose a wife and a son was too painful for Dean to even think about. Besides, he could barely function through his own misery, and coming up with a way to comfort his father wasn't something he could even begin to consider.

Grief was a monster that was a constant in their lives, and yet they had never come up with a way to kill it. Grief was constantly getting the better of the Winchesters, was always threatening to overwhelm them and it was all they could do to keep it at bay most of the time. This time though, it looked as though it had won once and for all. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but Dean was all out of hope and faith. He was running on empty and on the verge of a breakdown of his own.

"Dean."

He raised his pounding head and looked at the willowy figure of Joshua standing at the foot of the bed.

"Where's dad?"

"He's with Sam in the car. It's time to go," Joshua replied quietly.

Dean nodded but he couldn't seem to get his body to move off the bed. He was so tired, his body craving sleep and his mind dulled with exhaustion, too tired to even think straight. His nerves were shot to hell and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. He was aware that he hadn't eaten anything in hours, but he was too tired to even think about food. The simple act of raising his hand to his mouth, and actually chewing was too taxing to even contemplate.

"Dean."

There was a light touch on his knee, and Dean realized that he had been staring at his trembling hands, and that Joshua was sitting beside him.

"Huh?"

"Dean. You're tired, and you probably want a hot shower and a warm bed. I promise that you'll have both when you get to my place. So will you father and Sam."

Dean managed a weak snort.

"I'm not some kid you need to bribe into doing something," Dean told him, his voice more hoarse that he'd first thought.

Joshua chuckled.

"No, you're not. How about we get to the car? Once we get there, you and me and your daddy are going to talk about how best to treat Sam, okay?"

"Do you know what's wrong with him? I mean, he's not being haunted or possessed is he?" Dean perked up immediately.

Joshua shook his head.

"I'm absolutely positive that he's not. I'm not a hundred percent sure yet, but I have a good idea what's troubling your brother. So get your ass up and lets get moving. The sooner we leave the sooner we can get started," Joshua patted his leg and stood up.

Dean sat still for a long moment before he slowly followed him. He stood in the door of the motel, squinting into the bright sunlight and watching as his father carefully arranged Sam's sleeping form in the back seat of the Impala.

The relief that he felt was indescribable. There had been times in the past when John or Sam had been hurt badly that he had been so worried he'd thought he'd explode. But the relief he felt was like a dam bursting. There was a tight feeling in his chest and throat, like there was something he needed to do, but he had no idea what it was.

Joshua could help Sam. His brother could get better.

That was all he needed to know.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Joshua's house was a simple, sprawling one story ranch style house, made entirely of wood. Dean loved it instantly, loved the porch that ran all the way around the house and the rambling aches of open land that it was situated on. There was a pond and two sheep dogs that were gamboling about in the dirt of the front yard.

Dean was too numb and tired to do much more than watch as John carefully extracted Sam from the car and carried his sleeping brother inside with Joshua holding open the door. Dean remained where he was, collapsing back against the side of the car, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the sun. The metal of the car beneath him was warm and dusty, the sun hot on his face, and he wondered yet again if he would ever stop feeling so tired. Even with a cool breeze caressing his skin, he knew what the answer was.

He would get back up, and start patching his heart back together again. And then he would go on. Because that was the way things were done in his family. They were beaten until they were lower than the ground, and then they got back up and did it all over again. No matter how tired, or heart weary they were, they always got back up, because there was too much to do and too many things to kill to be caught lying down on the job. Peoples lives depended on them, and with the heavy knowledge of their trade, they had no other choice than to struggle on through all the mud and dirt that threatened to drag them down into their murky depths.

Sam had been trapped, swallowed up by the weight of their responsibilities. He had never fully understood why they had to do the things they did, and he had let himself build dreams. Those dreams had been his undoing, for when they had been torn down remorselessly, he had shattered into a thousand pieces. Not unusual for them, but then Sam had gotten lost and they were still trying to put together all the pieces.

Dean was aware of a weight coming to rest against the car beside him, but he didn't open his eyes.

"How you doin' kiddo?" John asked, his voice gruff, yet gentle in the way that Dean rarely heard.

He lifted his head and opened his eyes, looking around the place so he didn't have to look at his father.

"That bad huh?"

Dean shrugged and looked down, scuffing his worn boots in the gravel.

"This is a good place," Dean mumbled to himself, unable to look up for fear of breaking down.

"It is," John agreed. "The kind of place Sammy likes, I think."

Dean felt a violent rising of bitter rage within his chest as he pushed away from the car and started walking towards the winding driveway. He couldn't see where he was going through the tears, but it was better than standing still. He keeping walking, ignoring his father calling his name and the crunch of gravel as he followed.

The tightness in his chest was suffocating, and the overwhelming urge to just sit down and start crying almost got the better of him. He was startled out of his grief by his father grabbing his arm and whirling him around, a hard look in his eyes.

"Dean you..." he lost what he was going to say when he saw the tears start trickling down his face.

He wanted to be a little boy again, when things weren't so difficult, and his father could save the world once more. He wanted to just live in the moment as he had once done, with a little brother who depended on him for everything and a father who was a hero. He wanted to throw himself at his father and have those strong, capable arms wrapped around him once more, protecting him from all the horrible and senseless things that surrounded them.

So that's what he did. It should have been funny, seeing a twenty four year old throw himself into the arms of his father and start shaking with muffled sobs, but it wasn't. All the anger and confusion and pain he had been feeling over the last weeks was killing him inside, and it needed an outlet.

And then nothing mattered except that his father was hugging him back, strong and silent and steady in the face of this adversity. Dean gave himself up to the pain for the first time in years.

Later on, Dean realized that somewhere along the line, someone had gotten him cleaned and changed and settled him in a clean, soft bed with a pillow that felt like heaven. In the aftermath of his bout of crying, he had been well looked after. He couldn't even remember who it was that had helped him, but he knew that it was his father. He'd had the good sense to make sure that both he and Sammy were in the same room, where the sound of the others breathing was like a soothing lullaby, as it had been for years.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:**_Supernatural and its characters and concepts belong solely to Eric Kripke. I own nothing and make no profit._

**Warnings:**_Swearing, angst, mentions of violence._

**Author's Note: **_As an early Christmas present, I decided to finish this fic for all of those who read it. Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year. I hope all your dreams come true in the following year, and that inspiration will continue to guide you._

* * *

**Part Five**: _Dreaming My Dreams With You_

John was sitting on the porch at sunrise to next morning. All was quiet and still, save for the golden light slowly creeping across the land and banishing the shadows of the night. He sat with a cup of steaming coffee cradled in his large hands, and Dean had never felt more comforted by the sight of his father and his early morning rituals before.

He stepped out onto the wooden veranda barefooted and dressed in his worn gray pajama pants and an old shirt of Sam's, frayed at the hems but softened in its age. For a moment he just drank in the sight of the sunrise, with the sky turned golden with the promise of another beautiful day. After his break down last night, Dean felt better than he had in an age. Hope was a fragile thing, but when it was allowed to grow it could also give you wings and courage, and all the strength you needed to push on through the final stages of what was a dark and difficult time.

He had always had an uncanny ability to somehow know when something was drawing to a close, whether it be a job, or a fleeting relationship, or yet another dark patch in their long and twisted past, he had always known. And he felt, down deep in his gut that this was coming to an end. While Sam might have a winding road to recovery, they were over the worst of it.

So it was with a smile that Dean sat down in the chair next to his father.

"Morning," John glanced at him, offering a half smile before looking back out over Joshua's property.

"Morning dad." He paused for a moment. "I uh...I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean..."

John turned to face him in his chair a little, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"It's okay, Dean-o," he reassured him. "It does make me wonder where I went wrong to make you think that crying is a bad thing."

"Crying doesn't solve anything. You didn't do anything wrong dad," Dean muttered, looking away from his father's self loathing smiled. He hated it when his father said things like that. It made him feel uncomfortable and uncertain. His father was a man who knew his own mind; he was strong in his convictions and held steady when people tried to tell him he was wrong. It was that strength and steadfastness that Dean admired, so when he talked like everything he did was wrong, it made everything seem just a little bit more hard to deal with, and the path just a little bit more unstable.

"It might not solve anything, but it sure as hell makes you feel better and clears the mind. Hell, if you knew the amount of times I've cried, well. We probably wouldn't be having the conversation," John smiled as he took a sip from his coffee.

Dean was gob smacked, and he suspected that it showed as he stared at the man.

"Seriously? Why?"

"Well, for obvious reasons," John paused. "And sometimes when a hunt goes wrong and someone dies. When you or Sammy get hurt. Things like that."

"But...that's...huh." Dean slumped back in his chair, not sure what to think. "It never occurred to me..."

"That's really the whole point. There's nothing wrong with crying, but that doesn't mean that everyone has to know that you are," John raised an eyebrow at him pointedly and Dean grinned.

"Right."

They sat in silence for awhile, and it was more comfortable than Dean could remember experiencing since this whole ordeal had started. It was something familiar and soothing practice to Dean from way back. They could just stop and sit together and it would never be awkward for either of them as they kept each other company. It was the way they survives long vigils sometimes, when Sam had been sick, or injured, or whenever they were on a stakeout. There was no need for idle chatter, no need for either of them to think of something to say. It had always made Dean a little sad that his father and Sam couldn't share the same sort of companionship with each other. They were just a little too different and a little too alike for it to work.

"But don't tell Sammy I told you that. I'd never live it down," John said after a few minutes and Dean couldn't help the smile that bloomed.

After a few moments though, the smile faded as the mention of Sam bought with it more sobering thoughts. More importantly, the answers to the puzzle were at his fingertips and he felt that he was finally ready for them, and that once he knew, he could go about finding a way to deal with it.

"Dad? Does Joshua know what's wrong with Sammy?" he ventured tentatively.

John didn't answer for a few minutes as he stared into his coffee cup. He knew better than to assume that he hadn't heard or was ignoring his question. His father was a man who never did anything without planning for it, without thinking of the pros and cons and weighing each before he decided on a course of action. Dean knew that he was probably thinking of the best way to put the bad news, and a knot of dread formed in his stomach.

"It won't be easy for you to hear this, Dean, but I want you to try and hear me out."

Dean nodded, his mouth dry and his ears ringing, but he sat up straighter in the chair and turned to face him a little more.

"Joshua thinks it could be one of several things," he began as he leaned forward and set his mug on the small table before them. He paused and intertwined his fingers as he rested his elbows on his knees.

"The most likely explanation he could come up with was Schizophrenia." he said, his voice roughened.

Dean was dazed speechless for a moment before he frowned and sat on the edge of his chair.

"Schizophrenia? What...what do you mean the most likely? Isn't there some way he could make sure?"

John shook his head.

"Schizophrenia is a funny thing Dean. There's no surefire way to diagnose it. I've seen it in men that I served with years ago. It's...It's not going to be easy for him, Dean-o," he said quietly. "It explains everything though, and Joshua thinks that there are several ways we could help him."

"Schizophrenia." Dean stated in disbelief as he slumped back in his chair. "Is there...Is there a cure?"

"I don't..."

"There's no actual cure for Schizophrenia, Dean," a new voice interrupted.

They both looked around to where Joshua stood in the doorway, skillfully holding three steaming cups. He handed they out as he joined them, and sat in a third chair facing them both.

"But...you can help him right? You can make him better?" Dean swallowed, wrapping his hands around the warm mug.

"I can try. Maybe this would be easier for you to understand if I told you a little about it, hmm?"

When Dean nodded mutely, Joshua sat back in his chair and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"No one actually knows the cause of Schizophrenia, but it's most common in adolescents and young adults. There's a chemical that the brain produces too much of that causes the symptoms, but no one knows why it does." Joshua explained slowly.

"What about….those voices he was hearing?" Dean asked slowly, feeling that horrible bite of fear in his stomach as he voiced that particular concern. "He kept….talking about some girl, a ghost of some sort."

"The ghost of a girl?" John frowned. "We haven't ever hunted the spirit of a girl. The last ghost we put to rest was the one in Hell's Canyon, and that was the ghost of a male hiker."

"So why a girl ghost?" Dean asked, confused. "I mean, where would he get the idea of…."

"It was probably a manifestation of his symptoms," Joshua interrupted quietly. "An auditory hallucination of some kind. It's not uncommon."

John and Dean sat in silence for a few long moments; Dean was trying to hide the sudden relief Joshua's information had granted. That particular obsession of Sam, the young girl ghost who was continually talking to him, had been a focal point of his concerns for a long time. The knowledge that she wasn't real and a hallucination was both a blessing and a curse.

"Right. So how do we cure….how do we help him then?" John asked eventually.

"The only way we can help Sam is to counteract the symptoms. If we find the right combination of ant psychotic drugs, then we may be able to get Sam better."

"But how did Sam get like this? He hasn't shown any symptoms for years..." Dean couldn't keep quiet any longer. "And then all of a sudden he goes bat-shit crazy? It doesn't make any sense!"

"Dean, I know it's hard to understand but you've got to try okay?" Joshua said slowly, with a frown forming on his face. "I know that this has been hard on both of you, but you're going to have to keep it together for just a little while longer. There's some things we need to clear up before we can start figuring out where to go from here."

Chastened, Dean lowered his head and scuffed his bare foot against the wood gently. It always made him angry at himself when his emotions got the better of him, but he was only human, and sometimes things got too much even for him.

But he needed to keep a calm head about his shoulders, that much was clear. Sam needed him to remain steady, just like his father had for him.

"So...what else?" he asked quieter.

"Well, normally people with Schizophrenia don't need to be hospitalized unless they pose a threat to themselves or others," Joshua paused and eyed them both for a moment. "From what I've been told, Sam had an episode of such behavior."

Dean opened his mouth to protest, and vehemently, that Sam wasn't a threat to anyone, only himself. But recalling that scene at the motel lobby was enough to keep him quiet. While Sam hadn't actually hurt anyone, he very well could have. How long until he actually did? Dean and John could only watch him for so long. There would be times when Sam slipped away from them, and then what?

"However, considering your...unique situation, I wouldn't recommend this for Sam. If we can treat this successfully with medication, then that's what we'll do. But if it turns out that we can't, then I have a few contacts who might be able to do something."

Dean frowned at his hands; the very thought of Sam locked up somewhere, with only his thoughts for company sickened him. Sam had the kind of personality that needed freedom, and room to breathe. There wouldn't be any kind of room in the kind of places they were talking about. If it came down to that, then Dean probably would break him out and run away with him. There had to be a better way than that.

"What...what kind of drugs are we talking about here?" John asked quietly. "I don't want him on anything that's going to make him sick."

Joshua shook his head. "That's something you don't have to worry about. While there will be side affects, there won't be any lasting damage to any of his organs if the doses are watched and administered correctly. The aim of the drugs is to suppress the symptoms, to stop the auditory hallucinations that he perceives as voices."

That was all that mattered to Dean. If they could stop those voices in his head, then maybe Sam could think straighter.

"And he could get better right? Is there any chance that he'll go back to the way he was?" John spoke up again.

"Yes. There is a good recovery rate with the drugs. About a third of people diagnosed make a full recovery. Considering Sam's age and good health, I'd say that he has a good chance. Especially with the two of you looking out for him," Joshua smiled, and Dean couldn't help but return it. He liked Joshua, with his kind, smiling eyes and his honest and sincere manner.

"What kind of side affects?" John persisted and Dean frowned.

"I won't lie to you. There could be some noticeable side affects, but it really differs from patient to patient. The drug that I have in mind can cause things like sedation, and could lead to blindness if its used continually without checkups."

"But if monitored correctly, then the drugs won't have any long term effects?"

Joshua nodded. "However, I do have some conditions that go with this treatment plan."

John's face darkened considerably, and Dean tensed, wondering what kind of argument this would lead to. His father wasn't the type to take orders easily, especially when it came to one of his sons.

"Sam needs an environment that is steady, with rules and routines. If you can settle down somewhere for any period of time and establish a set routine, it could help Sam significantly. If I'm going to help Sam, then I need your reassurance that you will do this."

He watched as his father mulled over the concept in his mind, and prayed that he would agree. Even for someone who loved traveling as much as he did, there were times that he had wished he could just stand still for awhile. When the comfort of being on the open road became void, he longed for a place to call home, even if it was just for a few weeks. Even he, in all his ignorance on the subject, could see the sense in Joshua's proposal. He prayed that his dad would too, not just for Sam's sake but for his own sanity and peace of mind as well.

"I think that's something we could work with," John conceded after a few moments. "If I decided to do this, then I'd probably get a place somewhere around here, so you're close in case something happens."

Dean slumped back in his chair and exhaled quietly. Sam wasn't getting better yet, but it was a start in the right direction.

- - - - -- - -- - -- - -

Dean went for a walk that evening. There was a small, barely visible path that wound its way through the trees of Joshua's property. For the first time in months, Dean felt truly at peace with himself. In the shadow of the towering trees that had lived more than a lifetime, he found it hard not to be. There was something humbling about being surrounded by living beings that were older than anything or anyone he knew. With their straight trunks and their obvious strength and enduring will to survive, there was some comfort to be taken from them.

Sam and his father were sleeping, his father exhausted, and Sam still sleeping off the effects of what had been a long and harrowing journey. He had watched him for a while, marveling at just how young and peaceful he had looked, before he decided that he needed to stretch his legs and clear his mind.

He wasn't the type for introspection. That had been more of Sammy's forte before things had gone haywire. But the last few weeks he had caught himself doing it more and more often. Perhaps, despite everything, he had learned something about himself during the hardship that he had suffered. He had learned not to take things for granted. He had learned that it hadn't been Sam's illness that had caused him to break down, it hadn't been him or his father. Sam hadn't been well for a long time, perhaps since those early days of his childhood. He had been an unusual child, but Dean had been aware, in a vague, prickly sense of the word, that when Sam had first began to lose that child like innocence, the first hints of a more jaded, lonely boy/man had started to show.

It wasn't the first time Dean had wished for things to be different, and it definitely wouldn't be the last. Hell, if he could go back in time, he would change everything. His mother would still be alive, his father would be happy and both he and Sammy would have had a home. Sam would have grown up, gone to college, gotten married and had a brood of his own.

And Dean, well. He would have made something of himself.

There were so many things that he could wish were different. If only he had paid more attention in school, maybe he would have been smart enough to figure out what was wrong with Sammy sooner. If he had been more vigilant, then he might have realized that denying Sam his dream of going to school and living his own life would have been the worst possible decision he had ever made.

Because Sam would have been happy there. He could make the friends he always wanted. He could meet someone who meant as much to him as his mother had meant to his father. He could finally start to forge himself a solid future and something to live for, instead of living from day to day, on the gas in the tank and the few dollars in their wallets.

It would be hard to let him go, Dean knew that. He wasn't going to deny that the loneliness would probably send him off the deep end for awhile. But as he had learned, some things you had to let go and leave alone, so they could grow wild and free as they were meant to.

If Sam could get past his ordeal, if he could gather the will to get better, then Dean promised himself he'd get Sam to Stanford no matter what it took. He would send his brother off with good intentions and a clear conscience. Dean wasn't one to break his promises, and he wasn't about to start.

He had promised Sam over and over that things would be alright, that they'd get better and they'd be happy one day. It hadn't come to pass yet, but Dean was determined to make sure that it happened. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that you couldn't sit still and wait for good things to happen. You had to work for them. You had to sweat and toil and work you ass off if you had any chance. And it was their dad that had taught them that if you worked hard enough, the results would eventually show themselves. John Winchester had taught them to never give up until the job was done, and Dean would damn well keep pushing until this thing was finished.

Sam had, time again, opened Dean's eyes to the truth. No matter how far away they were, no matter how many state lines were between them, they were family. They could hold that truth close to their hearts without a doubt, and it was that truth that would keep them strong throughout the dark hours that descended on them time and time again.

Dean hadn't known that before. He could be secure in that knowledge though, and it was that lesson that had put his mind at rest. It was that lesson that would make it easier for him to let Sam go, at least for awhile until Sam came back to him.

Because he would. Sam would always return to him, not matter how far apart they were, or for how long. Sam had carved out a place for himself in Dean's heart from the first moment Sam had been placed in his arms when he was four years old, from the moment his mother had told him, "This is Sam. He's your brother."

And Sam would stay there, would always have a place there. Though he may die the next day, he could die peacefully knowing that he had family that loved him as fiercely as he loved them.

Dean tilted his head back as he wandered, and let the warm afternoon sun fall onto his upturned face. The sky above him was streaked red and gold, and all around him, the smell of wild flowers and fresh air.

A cold wind ruffled his skin as he looked up at the cloud streaked sky.

"Don't worry. I'll do a better job of looking after him from now on," he said quietly. "I promise. We'll be okay, mom."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was nearly two in the morning when Dean came awake slowly.

The first thing he noticed was that the bed opposite him was empty, the sheets rumpled, and very obviously slept in, but empty. With a thudding heart and fear clenching in his chest, he sat up quickly and swung his legs to the floor.

The second thing he noticed was that the window was open, and the white curtains fluttering in a breezed that carried just a hint of warm. Dean pushed himself to his feet, sleep banished from his mind and wide awake as he padded silently to the window and looked out.

There, several feet away sitting huddled on the veranda roof that ran along the wall beneath their window, was Sam.

He was sitting in that familiar position, with his arms wrapped around his legs. But his head wasn't tucked down. Instead, his chin was resting on his knees as he stared off into the distance. Slowly, and making some noise so he didn't startle him, Dean climbed out the window and walked steadily towards his brother, keeping his balance by crouching a little.

He sat beside Sam, crossing his legs and looking out as he did. The moon was half full, and it cast a brilliant white light over the landscape before them. As chick flick as it sounded, it was a breathtakingly beautiful sight. He saw the glint of the moon's reflection off the surface of the small lake he knew was there, hidden and nestled in a clearing almost out of sight.

Sam had been quiet and calm for the last few days. Joshua had finally settled on a course of medication for him, and the changes in his behavior had been very noticeable. He knew their father had been worried about the effect of the medicines on Sam's body, because to Dean's surprise, males apparently kept developing well into their early adulthood years. Joshua had been adamant in reassuring them that he had accounted for that already, and that the doses weren't as strong as they would be for other patients.

John had finally, reluctantly consented, after a detailed discussion with Josh that Dean hadn't been privy too. His father had, though, been absent for the last two days, and to Dean's joy, he had been off looking for a place for them to live for awhile.

Sam though, had been sleepy and calm for the last few days, and at last, seemed to be able to think more clearly. While he still didn't talk much, he was able to hold coherent conversations with people for the first time in months.

The only thing that had lifted Dean's spirits was Joshua's reassurances that the medications were working for the time being. Sam's symptoms were under control, and his quality of life had shot up once more.

Still, it was slightly saddening to watch a guy who had once been so full of life, of fire and ambition to be so...placid and calm all the time. Needless to say, it was a dramatic juxtapose to who he had once been and there was no denying that he was better off than he had been.

"I guess you're done with sleeping then, huh?" Dean said eventually.

Sam nodded wordlessly.

"What do you say we go for a walk tomorrow Sammy? We could take the dogs into town and get burgers if you feel up to it," Dean offered, wanting to break the silence for a change. It may have been selfish of him, but he just wanted to hear Sam's voice, to reassure himself that Sam really was on his way back to himself.

"I'd like that." Sam replied suddenly. "I'm...I'm sick of feeling so...tired all the time."

"Understandable."

"I want..." Sam began after a moment.

"What?" he prodded gently. "What is it you want Sam?"

A small smile tugged at Sam's mouth for a moment, before he shook his head and took a deep breath as if to steady himself. As he exhaled, he looked up at the star studded sky, and Dean couldn't look away. It had been months since he had since that thoughtful look on his brothers face, the one that said he was thinking about something deeply, considering each and every angle of something before he shared it with Dean. Inevitably, it would lead to a frustrating conversation with him, full of questions that he had never had the answers to before.

He never thought he'd miss that look, but he had. And it was a relief to see it again, even if it was only half of what it had once been.

"I feel...empty. You know? Like there's all this space in my head, and I'm not sure what to do with it. I don't feel...balanced," Sam said eventually, his voice small and soft.

A few more of the puzzle pieces clicked into place as Dean thought about that for a few minutes. Just as he was about to deliver his thoughts on the matter, Sam started to speak again. Dean couldn't help but feel elated; Sam had never carried a conversation on by himself since he had started the medications. Dean had been told many things by Joshua about how to help Sam, things he could do to encourage him outside of his therapy sessions with their new ally, but Dean couldn't bring himself to employ his newfound skills. Not when Sam was talking so openly for the first time in a long time.

"Josh told me to think of myself as an empty room that needs decorating. He said it's up to me how I want to decorate it, what I want to decorate it with. But..." Sam paused, glanced at Dean for a moment before looking away again. "The only thing that's in there is you."

Dean took a moment to let what he had said sink in through the surprise, and then had to suddenly swallow the sudden lump in his throat, and blink back the unexpected onslaught of the tears that threatened.

"I don't remember much, you know? Just bits and pieces of the last few months. But...I remember you," Sam said hoarsely, and Dean could see the tears in his eyes, glistening as they slid down his cheeks. He ached inside, like a painful bruise would and he wanted to reach out and touch his brother, to offer him some sort of comfort, but he held back, knowing somehow that Sam wasn't finished yet. It had to be the hardest thing, to sit by and watch someone you love in pain.

"I still...I don't know why this happened to me. I can never make sense of anything. It's all so jumbled in my head that I don't know what to think anymore." Sam swallowed audibly and swiped at his cheeks with a trembling hand. "I guess what I'm trying to say is thank you. For being there. It means a lot to me."

Dean had to swallow three times before the words could get out. Before he even realized what he was doing, he was pulling Sam in, pulling him closer and drinking in the warmth of his baby brother.

"You don't need to thank me Sam. I'd do it all again in a heart beat if I thought it would help you." he said hoarsely, in a voice that he didn't recognize. "As for the rest...just give it time, Sammy. Things will sort themselves out. Just give it some time."

Sam nodded against his shoulder, his eyes drooping slightly as he huddled closer. Dean smiled and exhaled as he guided Sam's head to his lap. His baby brother, his rock, the gift he had been given so many years ago was safe.

Sam's eyes closed as Dean ran his fingers through his hair. He looked out over the moonlit trees before them once more, unable to keep the smile from his face.

All they needed was a direction, and they'd be alright.

_Epilogue to Follow _

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**A/N:** Please note that I myself have no experience with Schizophrenia in any way, and no medical knowledge whatsoever. All the information used in this chapter was researched on the internet (wikipedia for anyone who's interested). Any mistakes or inconsistancies are my own.

Thanks for reading! Stick around for the epilogue and the soundtrack that goes with this story!


	6. Epilogue

**Disclaimer:**_Supernatural, its characters and concepts belong to their rightful owner. I'm only borrowing them!_

**Warnings**:_Angst, mentions of violence, swearing._

**Author's Note: **_Finally! The end of this story, and I'm glad that those of you who are reading are enjoying it. I hope that you like this very short epilogue, and Merry Christmas!_

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**Epilogue**

The radio was turned off and Dean's only companions were his sleeping passenger and the sound of the engine and the wheels on the open road. Just the way he liked it, just the way he would always have it if he had the choice.

But he didn't. He'd had to fight back his own misgivings, but as soon as they'd left the towns behind and the wide open spaces were flying by the windows, he'd found they'd dissolved without a trace.

It wouldn't be the last time they saw each other. He'd make sure of it. He'd call Sam every week, maybe drop in every now and then to make sure he was looking after himself.

Sam had been adamant though. He wanted to set out on this adventure by himself. He wanted to make it on his own for the first time in his life. The youngest Winchester had fought long and hard for his independence, and he had finally won it. It was a reward well deserved, and one that Dean would not begrudge him.

Sam needed this. Any one would have to blind not to see that and Dean was only happy to oblige.

His brother was asleep in the passenger seat next to him, his head resting against his bent arm, the wind ruffling his hair, and the warm afternoon sun casting his face into shadow. He'd grown some, over the last year and a half. He'd packed on weight and muscle, and while he was still whipcord thin, his skin was tanned a healthy golden hue. Behind those closed eyelids a pair of gray-green eyes sparkled with life and a thirst for knowledge.

Dean smiled as he turned his gaze back onto the open road before them. He propped his elbow on the open window, driving with only one hand.

If it was his choice, this was how they'd always be; with the open road stretching out endlessly before them, each others company, and the sun warming all the cold places within.

But it wasn't up to him, and for once, Dean was okay with that.

Dean smiled as he slid his sunglasses onto his face. California and Sam's bright future were calling them onwards, and Dean was only happy to answer that call.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Dean knocked loudly on the wooden door before him, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he fought to contain his excitement.

A few minutes later, he rapped again, louder and longer, and grinned when he heard the shuffling of feet and annoyed muttering from the other side. The door was yanked roughly open, and Dean was face to face with the scowling form of Sam.

He watched as shock and surprise flickered across his face, before a grin, bright and blinding emerged.

"Dean! What are you doing here?"

"Was in the area, thought I'd drop by," he replied nonchalantly before he stepped forward and swept his brother into a strong hug, which was returned instantly.

"How's life treating you, kiddo?" Dean asked as he stepped back.

He didn't really need to ask though, because the grin on Sam's face and the brightness in his eyes said it all.

"Can't complain. I'm starting work at the firm next week, so I've been getting ready for that." Sam replied, still looking surprised, but the happiness on his face was enough to banish Dean's doubts and soothe the jagged edges on his heart that had been carved there in Sam's absence.

"Well? Are you going to invite me in or what, hot shot?" Dean asked right before he shouldered past his brother and dumped his worn duffle bag in the hallway. "Man, this is some set up, you've got here. Where's Jess?"

Sam was still smiling as he closed the door and followed Dean into the kitchen.

"She's out with Davy. It's his first doctor's appointment today." Sam paused. "And she's going to kill you if she sees you wearing those muddy boots in the apartment."

Dean turned around and looked at Sam, unable to keep the grin off his face as he took in the sight of his brother. Alive, healthy and happy- all he'd ever asked for Sammy. It made everything he fought for worthwhile, made every hunt more bearable and gave him something to look forward to. His brother was finally grown, and safe. That was enough to settle his mind, and calm his fears.

Not only that but he had an amazing girlfriend whom he loved more than anything, and a tiny, baby boy to occupy his time with. Dean couldn't be more happy for him; it was more than he had ever thought would be possible for either of them.

"Well then. Guess I'd better do something about that then, huh?"

End

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**Author's Note: **_Thanks for reading folks! I'm off to get some work done on my other stories. Thank you for all your feedback! I really appreciate it! Should you have any questions regarding this story, please feel free to message me whenever you want. I'm more than happy to answer questions!_

_Take Care,_

_T.S_


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